Clothes Maketh the Man
by Changhenge
Summary: Chryed, oneshot. Christian watches Syed dress and thinks about the past and the present. Short and  bitter sweet.


**WARNING: This was written after seeing the pics in the soap mags for the episode on Tues 5th April. There are no explicit spoilers within but there are I guess a couple of subtle hints and it probably makes a bit more sense if you have seen them or read the spoilers!**

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**Tuesday 4th April**

I watch him get dressed. An act I've watched hundreds of times before; so often before it was the rushed guilty fluster of clothes returning in a bid to cover his shame, but now it is most likely to be a hurried act to find the respectability needed for the mundanity of shopping or work, or the swift theft of my t-shirt to protect still sleepy skin from the winter draughts that creep through windows or edge under doors.

I've probably watched him dress even more than I've watched him undress. The latter naturally provides a continual source of pure pleasure, the anticipatory delight flaming through my body as he slowly reveals himself to me. But it is an action that demands from me a certain kind of patience, and I'm not always ready or prepared for that. And so sometimes I never see him undress, sometimes I barely register the feel of his clothes under my hands until they are lying, haphazard and unwanted, lonely and discarded on the floor. Yeah, watching him undress is an obvious joy for my lust but watching him get dressed is a more secret pleasure, a different kind of intimacy that I cling tight to inside.

I watch him get dressed. I watch as the arms that earlier clung tightly to my dampened back are encased in long flowing sleeves. I watch as the stomach I dragged a hungry tongue over is hidden by the drawing across of the covering of cotton. I watch as the lithe thighs that gripped and thrust around me disappear under the shadow of dark fabric.

I watch fingers attempt to hide the slightest tremble as they slowly fasten buttons and press down over invisible creases. I watch as he pulls the clothing that speaks of hope and anticipation, of family and of pride, over the bare skin of doubt and fear, of shame and of hurt. I watch the weight of loss and longing hang heavy on his shoulders.

I watch him comb down damp hair, pressing recalcitrant locks into place, forcing disobedient curls to straighten and lay mindfully in place. His fingers pat and smooth and I feel my own hands twitch with impotent desires; the longing to push them through the thick dark tresses, to feel the soft silken gloss run over my skin, to mess up the ordered perfection with my selfish wanting hands.

He shrugs on his jacket, laying flattened palms down the front, over intricate designs, unfamiliar to my eyes, that decorate the plain style. He wears it like a second skin, it fits his slender frame, enhances the pull of his magnetic eyes and drags my gaze upwards to stare at the reflection of his face in the mirror. He is looking uncertainly at himself, as if he is not sure if it is right, if _he_ is right. I move my eyes to take in the full sight of him, at the way he looks both more like himself than ever, and yet almost as a stranger to me, standing in our flat yet alone in his world. But most of all, he looks…_stunning_, and I feel my breath catch in my throat.

My hand starts its familiar path to stroke down his arm, to curve around his waist, to draw him into me, but it halts when barely halfway. His clothes fill my eyes with visions and my mind with memories, the very fabric taking on a gentle yet firm barrier that I'm not sure how, or whether, to cross.

The colours are different, the patterns distinct, but it calls to mind the outfits of the past and my body twitches with the urge to relive the ache of long ago movements. I see reluctant eyes that met my gaze as my hand stretched and touched to raise up a stubbled chin. I feel the rough pull of fingers leaving my warm clasp, falling onto the table as if the touch itself burnt. I taste the salt of falling tears against my lips as I pulled his head to me and pressed my mouth against his brow.

I blink and find my focus again, staring at the way the cut of the cloth lies smoothly against the angles and lines of his body, the way the colours play against the pale tan of his face and the golden flashes in his eyes. I try to focus on the desirable; of his beauty, of my love, of the contentment of completement and of belonging that his appearance conveys.

But like an animal that warns of its danger with its dazzling bright beauty, so his appearance now brings not only shivers of desire but chills of fear. Memories echo around the quietness of my mind. Shouts of disgust and hate, deafened only by the silent screams from heart-breaking eyes filled with insolvable pain and helpless fear. _These things don't have a history of happy endings_, I think glumly, _and I usually end up leaving alone and heartbroken_, I add for good measure.

"What are you thinking about Christian?" asks Syed curiously, catching my gaze in the reflection and I think I detect a slight edge of concern there too.

I give myself a shake and firmly banish all such thoughts from my mind, concentrating instead on the pleasure and the joy, on the hope that still rules strong within Syed's heart. I smile at him and find a simple and truthful reply.

"That you scrub up _very_ nicely indeed."

He laughs with a smile that creases his cheeks and sends glints shining and sparkling in his eyes, and I realise suddenly that I don't think I have ever seen him smile with such a breath-taking smile, nor his eyes shine with such uncomplicated delight, not while wearing such clothes. _Yeah, this time will be different_, I think and smile to myself.

"And so do you," he replies, turning round to face me. "So shouldn't you start to get ready yourself instead of just perving over me?" He tuts with an expression of such failed disapproval that I can't help but laugh out loud, and I watch his lips twitch and his eyes twinkle as he glances down at the towel round my waist, my solitary attempt at covering up.

"Yep, just waiting for you to finish primping away at your hair," I stretch a hand out teasingly but he bats it away. "I didn't want you to get distracted."

"Because getting dressed really requires _all _of my attention? I'm not five, I can dress myself you know."

"Hmm…maybe, but nevertheless, watching, oh sorry, _perving_, over me demands 100% of your concentration," I leer, and wink at him as I remove my towel and he bites his bottom lip with supressed laughter.

I lean over to his perfectly neat and scarily tidy hair and draw my palms smoothly down it, making sure so as not to disturb a single hair. I step nearer, feeling the rub of fabric against my bare skin, the embroidered cotton marking me with his world. The barrier is gone. My lips find his and I kiss Syed Masood.


End file.
